The Burning Gift
by Xx-NiGhtWhIsPeReR-xX
Summary: .
1. Chapter 1:PROLOGUE

**PART ONE:**

THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF BERNARD BAKER

**PROLOGUE**

_Ohio Woods, Dec. 24, 1900_

_Are we lost? _Stella peered through a clot of leaves and knotted vines. The lolling branches signaling the narrow path hewn by the others beckoned, but lay out of reach. Shaking her head in disgust, she chopped and hacked at a tangled mass piled high and thick—leaves and vines held tight by twigs and fallen branches. With each swing, the wall's leaves shook and the branches jerked, threatening to rebound and knock her off her feet_. _ She dodged its blows and kept at it until a sigh escaped the center. _Was it giving way? Please, be quick._ Wedging the handle, she straightened her arms, pulling in one direction, then the other. A whine came from the dry leaves—_you can't be serious_.

_The wind…never mind—keep going!_ She twisted the handle under a thick branch, praying that it was all that kept the wall from collapsing. Her frozen hands were clumsy in the heavy gloves, and her thumbs slipped before she adjusted to the feel, letting them slide and come to rest. She ignored the pain in her arms; the pain would have its due when Becka was home. From the pines that stood near by, the wind caught clumps of snow, flinging them on her coat, and knitted cap. A chortle blew in her ear—the vines and leaves whispering—_what folly_—_Stella the fool—you think you can catch them now? _She answered with her fist and the end of her ax. Groaning, the wall collapsed—_oh God, thank you_. A portion leaned and swung to the side. Relief—the obstruction was now waist high on one side—maybe she could slide… _Ah! _Needles on sticks caught her coat, threatening to hold her. _Thought you'd get away—we'll see…_ _No!_ She lifted up her boot and kicked down, yanking at the restraints. _Oh God at last! _ It gave way just enough.

As she inched back onto the path, the wind resumed its torment. Spiraling mists of new snow blinded her._ No—save your strength, keep up—find her before_… The men's voices were growing even fainter._ Too much for a woman your age the sheriff had warned. _He was mistaken.

Urging her on, the buckeyes began to nod. The arctic wind had rushed down from Canada, slamming ships that sailed the restless Lake Erie--pushing through the frozen Ohio woods. Layers of wool protected her but slowed her pace–hard to keep up. _Was Becka warm? Oh God—let her be warm! Think—think of something else! S_he banished the image of Becka's frozen body..._Arthur and peppermints—he's slipping peppermints into stockings, Mary Kate's new doll, blocks—the alphabet blocks for Phil…the ring—the pearl's gray eye—what does it truly see?_

Under her glove, she wore the pearl ring—Becka's gift. "To Stella Bella from Becka," the box said. For years the ring sat on Mrs. Collin's bureau—a gift from Davy. Despite its clumsy setting, the prongs gripping like small fingers, the pearl's pattern—_she never missed a chance to…Becka knew... what did Becka give her for it? The old lady loved to bargain_…Branches waved above her head, her mind tore away—the sunlight fading. It would be dark soon.

_Hope! _The hounds were baying! Her heart's pounding in her ears caught the sound of the pack—the cries pulsed through her veins._ No!_ The clearing disappeared and her path blocked again—she was gaining—_Becka!_ Shifting sideways, she pushed on, ignoring the tangles of brush. Finally—a clearing—smoke in the distance—less than a mile. Smack!---a branch caught her face. Pain as a thorn pierced her forehead—blood trickling, freezing before it reached the scarf hiding her trembling jaw. They had been searching for seven hours, not stopping for food or resting more than a minute or so—an eternity.

_Becka—where are you? Sleeping Beauty? The forest of thorns…the most exciting part of the story. _Mother's worn face, softened by the lamp as she read to Stella and her brother. She knew the Lord would take her mother within the year— like she'd known about her father's death---long before the horse had thrown him.

The dogs kept howling and her arms flailed as she stumbled in her haste to reach them. Someone caught her arm. It was Bobbo. As he pulled her to her feet, she searched her brother's face. Was there hope? His eyes told nothing. "Up ahead" he said, "shake a leg". Rifle in hand, he ran towards the hounds, his long legs covering twice the distance of hers as she scrambled—her frozen feet uncertain when they touched the ground. Closer—there were fir trees bent over a cabin. It looked like a mound of earth and piled leaves, but there was a door--light escaping from its edges. Smoke was rising from the mound's center. They had found her! Becka was alive... _please, God…_ She began to shake as she slowed her pace. _Go home. Whatever is in there…let the sheriff take care of it._ Men were breaking through the door.

She rushed toward the cabin; a crack echoed. A falling branch? No—a shot. The echo fading, she heard slaps—like the sound of a leather strap hitting a hard surface, then a crow cawing—it was swooping down as if to crash into the mound, then spinning up into the heavy clouds. A wail sounded from within the cabin…someone moaning. _Arthur! _ Her breath came in short gasps when Bobbo blocked the doorway. He gripped her shoulder. She knew she must see--whatever the cost. Her hands numb with the cold, she removed a glove, dropping it on the dirt floor, her calloused fingers closed on his wrist.

"Bobbo, it's our Becka. Let me pass."

Tears clung to his sandy lashes. She was uncertain as he dropped his arm. As she passed under the rotting wood of the cabin's doorsill, her eyes adjusted to the candlelight. A clutter of tools and old newspapers rested on the floor next to a crude wooden table, its uneven legs causing an upward slant, the shimmering candles capturing their repose. Rotting food—graying chunks of meat and greenish bread lay strewn like a hideous accident, the stench of death rising from it. Fearing she might faint, she put her hand over her nose and mouth.

She steadied herself and saw the four deputies clustered together, their glances skipping from her to the table. Arthur sat on a bench near the four men. His hands cupped the sides of his head, as small whines and gasps came—his shoulders moving up and down. She thought of little Phil—_he sounds like Phil, the time Phil tumbled off the wagon_ … _something on the far corner of the table—a round piece of reddish meat larger than the rest—fresh and so moist, occasional drops of ...?_

She looked again. A heart—a pig's-- she was certain. Her feet were waking up—the warmth was painful. Where was Becka? She looked at the sheriff, the question on her face. He avoided her glance. Then slowly, Stella looked down. ..


	2. Chapter 2:STELLA

**STELLA**

REDHILL, OHIO

DECEMBER 1900

1

She first saw the boy when he and his accomplice appeared on a Saturday in mid-December. It was a mild December for Redhill, Ohio, a small community--home to less than 400 souls. Little Phil had pointed to a man pulling a cart as the family reached their customary stop, the post near Arthur's barbershop. Waving at passersby, a gray-haired man of fifty made his way along the road that served the town's center. His wiry frame harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, he whistled and called out to those that paused, inviting all to "take a look-see". Several open burlap sacks spilled over when the cart's wheels encountered a dip. A variety of woodcarvings, including several toys fell out, prompting "oohs" and "ahh"s from a number of folk who barely noticed the shabby boy of ten or so trailing behind. The cart itself displayed images of birds and trees carved into its sides. A burlap cap hid the boy's face. Still, she could see that his blondish hair needed a cut. Her maternal eye caught his oversized trousers, and the rope that did as his belt. His shoes flapped and shuffled as he walked.

When little Phil started jumping as he saw the toys, she knew they mustn't linger. Arthur and eight-year-old Mary Kate gave her a hopeful look. Stella felt uneasy as she watched the man stop. _He's putting on a show so we won't see. _ The salesman, his silver hair slickly combed, slipped out of the harness. With a touch of drama, he plopped a small table on the dried mud. People were crowding in to look. _ Run, _she thought_, before…what? Silly—they'll go as soon as they… _She closed her eyes and wished them gone.

She opened them quickly, scolding herself. _Stella Bella, stop being foolish, what did you think would happen—they'd disappear? Poof--like the genie in Aladdin's lamp? _There was laughter as more people gathered. The man performed a magic trick, pulling a coin out of a child's ear. _Nonsense, anyone can learn that one. Too much to do-- time to leave._ She turned to go and discovered Arthur and the children watching the man as he placed samples on the table—intricately carved toys, exotic animals, clasps for shawls, hairpins. _ Where are the knives?_ The thought crept into her mind and she pushed it away.

The cart's handles rested on the dirt; the boy sat in its shadow, hugging his skinny knees, not looking up as the man began to speak.

"I bring the world to you good people—America's Heart."

The gathering crowd grew quiet. His creased face fixed in a wide smile, the salesman charmed his audience. She saw that his clothes could use a wash.

"Crispin Baker, at your suhvice," he said.

"Foreign." She heard a woman whisper.

His hand moving in graceful circles, he touched his chest, as he bowed. She noted how his apprising eyes stayed on the crowd. Young girls cupped their faces, exchanging smirks. He had been handsome once. His smile said he still was.

_Something's not right!_

She knew what was wrong. The dread she felt was just her typical holiday gloom. "No one greets our Lord's birthday with a long face, but you missy," her mother often said. True, Stella hated Christmas. She whispered to Arthur that it was time to go; Phil began to stamp his feet and cry. Arthur and Mary Kate waited, knowing the effect of Phil's tears. When Arthur promised not to buy anything, she agreed Arthur and the children could stay.

As she began to edge through the onlookers, a shiver ran through her—as if ice chips were in her feet—sharp, cold—through her legs, hips and breasts, before creeping into her arms and hands. Her hands shook as she buttoned her coat. Were clouds coming? She felt the warm sun on her face—the ice feeling faded. _A breeze? Was the weather about to change? Arthur must pay attention._ If it turned, he should button the children's coats. She signaled Arthur--watch for the cold wind—_SNAP! Above her head…slap slap…crack—like a whip_—A large crow rested on a bare tree branch—its red eye fixed on her. Turning away she saw the ragged boy hunched over as he sat on the dried mud—his face a blank under the cap's shadow. _Get away—_the thought came unexpected. The coats forgotten, she hurried away.

After finishing her errands, she frowned as she made her way along the narrow path to the edge of town where Arthur and the children waited. The children sat in the back of the wagon while Arthur shifted from foot to foot. As she handed Arthur the few purchases on the family list, he started blinking and sweating. They had been married fifteen years and she sometimes wondered if she had three children, rather than two. Little Phil's cowlick of white-blond hair bounced up and down as he began to squeal, waving a toy boat in the air while Mary Kate sat quietly, hoping her mother wouldn't notice the new doll. The doll, whittled out of soft buckeye wood, had movable joints and dark buckeye knobs for eyes. Phil was inspecting his boat, his fingers exploring its details. He laughed when he saw the small wheel turned. Mary Kate, her plain face a small copy of Stella's, gave her mother a pleading look.

"Becka insisted", said Arthur defensively, "She came back for the peaches while you were gone." He hesitated, stuttering, "Sh-sh-she in-in-invited them back to the church. Sh-she said it was the l-l-l-least we could do—f-for the homeless boy."

At the mention of the boy, she found herself in a rage.

"Since when does my sister tell you what to do, Arthur Calkins?"

Arthur flushed--his balding forehead turning red and his eyes, large behind thick spectacles, looked away. Little Phil clutched his sister's waist. Ashamed at her outburst, she removed the scowl from her face and smiled at Arthur.

"Next time, we'll make such decisions together. We needn't mention this to Becka, now…" Arthur sighed and nodded. His relieved smile reminded her of a puppy eager to please. She knew he was dreading Becka's return to the wagon and the ride home. She decided she would deal with her sister later.

She turned to her daughter. "Missy—let's wait and see what old Saint Nick brings, shall we? I know many a poor little girl who'd love such a doll."

Mary Kate smiled bleakly. Phil could keep the boat--at least until he lost interest--the doll must be given away. Stella couldn't bear the sight of it.

2

After her conversation with Arthur, Becka retrieved the basket of canned peaches and walked the mile back to the First Christian Church. On Saturdays, a homemade welcome sign directed travelers or those in need to the church basement where she and Mayanne West served hot sandwiches and coffee. Stella planned to confront Becka after supper. Her younger sister was trusting--too much so, and should not interfere in family matters that did not concern her. Becka, who loved romantic novels, was a plump five feet two. With lank blonde hair that resisted the most determined curling iron in an effort to create tendrils, Becka twisted her hair tight against her nape, except for a narrow swathe several inches long that rested limply on her right shoulder. Meant to soften and suggest a romantic nature, it instead drew attention to her short neck. Despite her best efforts, she, like Mary Kate, resembled Stella. Becka's gray-blue eyes gave her round face a guileless beauty, but Stella knew they rarely saw the world as it was.

White lace curtains covered the window of Becka's small bedroom. Each morning as the family rose, the door stood open. Stella could see how the sun greeted her sister's room through the window's lace. The forest that began a few miles beyond spanned the horizon, its outline often caressed by a soft haze. Occasionally, a disturbing image came with the rising sun, as if created with daubs of paint—still wet—forming a shifting landscape where something waited for you to lose your way.

Her bedroom walls held Becka's romantic dreams--small paintings and embroidered images of lovers walking in the wilderness, meeting along wooded paths. The largest and most recent purchased while Becka shopped with Mayanne in Cleveland. It hung on the wall opposite her window. Stella was thankful that she could avoid looking at it—a watercolor showing an expanse of beach under blots of angry purple sky. Two figures, a blond boy and a dark haired girl, their faces barely visible, sat on the shore near swirling white capped waves that pushed against the rocks. The viewer could see what the two were looking at—a pale three-story building sitting—almost floating above the edge of a cliff. A hint of someone standing in the dark windows—specks of red…defining..._Something there wishes you harm. _

Stella urged her sister to return it and get her money back. Becka refused, "My room is my room." The more Stella insisted—the more Becka enjoyed refusing her. At the end of each day, Stella avoided her sister's bedroom. Near twilight, the forest no longer seemed swathed in mist; the trees became a rustling blur against the dark sky and if she wasn't careful, a melancholy threatened to overtake her—carrying her away from all she loved and protected.

After dinner, as Arthur and Mary Kate did the dishes, the sisters relaxed in the parlor—Becka with her novel and Stella, her sewing. Little Phil was at their feet—his boat cast aside in favor of an old rag doll. Before Stella could begin her lecture, Becka burst into tears.

"Oh, Stella, it's so sad—that poor boy."

Becka's transgression forgotten, Stella listened to her sister's encounter with Crispin Baker and the boy, Bernie.

"They came to the church for sandwiches." Becka blotted her eyes. "At first he was

charming enough. He's English, the only truth he told. You'd be amazed at what some in that basement believed—I'm not as gullible as you think!" Her voice rose as Becka defended herself.

Stella decided to humor her. "So what did he claim?" Becka's eyes swelled with indignation.

"After hinting that he was related to royalty, he talked about his life at sea, and how he came home to England to 'take care of this here angel after the drink took the misses'. He said he decided to seek their fortune in America—something to do with his stolen inheritance--by the duke of something. He hinted for donations--to tide him over, 'while Scotland Yard looked into it.' His greasy hat sat next to the coffee until I moved it. He flirted with all the women, including me. He was full of compliments. Did he mention his boy needed a mother? I found him repulsive, but you know Mayanne. She's desperate to marry."

Stella said nothing—Becka's unmarried status at twenty-seven rarely discussed.

"He'd eaten several sandwiches and then, we realized he was quite drunk!""He must have had a flask, though no one saw. He began to blubber and sob about how hard it was to be a slave to 'him'." Becka's eyes clouded with tears. "Stella, he meant that poor

little boy. The poor baby, he just sat there, spinning his little wooden top. Oh Stella, my heart nearly broke! We must do something!"

Stella felt no pity for the boy. He terrified her.

"Absolutely not—it is not our place to interfere."

Becka shook her head, disbelieving—her sister couldn't be so cruel. Stella gave her a look that said there would be no further discussion. Little Phil put up his arms. "Uh Becka, uh uh Becka…" Becka swooped up the boy —the happy Phil waving enthusiastically at his mother as they left the room. Stella sat with her mouth open—struggling for an explanation—Becka must understand… How though, when she didn't understand herself? What awful thing was it about the boy? That night she knelt and prayed she'd never know.

3

It snowed on Monday morning. She liked the stillness—as if God covered the sleeping ground with a white blanket. Arthur had hitched the wagon early, taking Mary Kate to school and Becka to work at Miss Amelia's Millinery and Ladies' Apparel before opening the barbershop. At seven in the morning, she was alone, as she sat at her mother's oak table. The table was large enough to seat twelve—its planks flush and even—the surface kept smooth with ceaseless care. It sat in the middle of the kitchen, the largest room in the house. The gray house was a two-story L-shaped structure. A one-story addition of a sewing room and extra bedroom extended the lower floor. Built by Bobbo, the addition was a wedding present for her and Arthur, but Becka claimed the new bedroom—its privacy appealing to her need for an existence, separate from her sister's. Bobbo's bachelor days were ending, much to Stella's relief --he was marrying Dora, Sheriff Gibbs's niece, a match she approved. Dora, a dark-haired girl of twenty-five, had a reserved manner, much preferable to Mayanne, Becka's choice for their brother. Mayanne's giddy laugh irritated Stella.

Allowing herself a few moments of doing nothing before she heated the iron and began the morning's first chore, she sat quietly—her arms extended, her hands resting on the table's surface, as if to embrace the memories that lingered in the faint grain. She remembered the arch of her mother's back as her mother stretched over the oak's planks, rolling out an expanse of dough. When she was little, Stella's place was on a stool, where she would wait until it was time to carve out the rolls or biscuits using a round glass, carefully placing the circles of dough on the metal sheet. The day that she first used the rolling pin, smoothing out an even plane of dough, her mother clapped—puffs of white flour shooting from her hands—like magic. Her mother took the rolling pin and lightly tapped Stella on each shoulder.

"I crown you Queen Stella Bella."

She was eleven at the time, and frowned. "But Mama, that's for a knight—a queen has a crown."

Her mother, whose beautiful face at thirty-one was marked by fine lines that would soon deepen into creases, laughed, saying, "Never mind, Stella Bella—we earn that crown, and God sees to it that we get it when we go to heaven."

Bobbo looked more like their mother—tall with light brown hair. She had her father's blond hair, broad features and stocky build, as did Becka. Becka, however, inherited her mother's optimism and good nature. The oak table and its memories of her mother were enough for Stella. Her mother's table was Stella's refuge.

While she sat in the kitchen, in the parlor white sheets protected the settee and new winged back chairs from mud and sticky fingers. Phil sat on the parlor's braided rug.—the noisy pans and spoons replaced by the soft cloth animals Becka had sewn for him. The cloth turkey was especially detailed with its individual tail feathers crafted from different colored scraps Becka saved from her work as a seamstress. Stella relaxed and admired the newest addition to her collection of thimbles, a delicate white China with blue windmills from Holland. Raps sounded on the kitchen door—three raps—Mrs. Collins. Sighing, she placed the thimble on a small shelf with the others and lifting the latch, pulled on the door. It stuck for an instant. She gave it a swift jerk, causing it to pop open. Bobbo promised to fix it before Christmas; she must remind him.

"Soooo you're t'home—made some fudge last night."

Mrs. Collins trilled the words as she handed Stella a bundle of crocheted blankets. Stamping the snow from her unlaced boots, the old woman tossed her frayed overcoat on a hook before placing a covered dish on the kitchen table. Inside the bundle was Pal, an ancient terrier and the neighbor's only companion since the death of Davey Collins—a merchant marine and her remaining child and last living relative. Mrs. Collins removed her hunter's cap freeing strings of white hair drooping from an indifferent wad pinned high on the back of her head. Stella saw that her mouth was trembling—there was something to tell. Mrs. Collins pulled up the rocker with the side of her boot, and flopped into the seat and spreading her knees, shimmied in to get comfortable. Stella heated water for tea while the old woman rocked, her arthritic fingers stroking Pal, who rested in the crook of her arm, his paws quivering limply. Tipping the chair gently back and forth, the octogenarian delivered her gossip. The two drifters, she announced, were staying.

"Where are they sleeping?"

Stella's heart sank; she had hoped they moved on to the next town. Pal gummed a cookie and the crumbs fell to the floor. She had the dustpan ready for use the moment they left. Ignoring Pal's dribbles, Mrs. Collins continued.

"Well sir, I don't know, but I heard that they turned down several invites of sheds and porches."

The old woman loved a mystery. Seeing a willing audience in Stella, Mrs. Collins leaned forward, revealing gums as toothless as Pal's—mouthing each word to emphasize their value.

"The story I heard… is that him and the boy don't want to feel obliged lest it lead to "mis-under-stand-ings".

Her filmy eyes glistening with expectation, she leaned forward in the rocker, waiting for Stella's reaction. The limp strings of hair vibrated as Mrs. Collins, waiting for an answer, or at the very least, a reaction to her news, was frustrated—some folks were just slower than others.

"What do you think he meant?" Her trilled question went flat with impatience.

Hopelessness came in waves as she steadied herself, gripping the edge of the table while her other hand held the kettle. Mrs. Collins frowned. Stella shook her head, unable to utter a word. Pal broke the impasse with a feeble whine.

Defeated, the woman sighed, "Dear lord, baby has to go."

The old white terrier groaned. Ignoring the kettle, Mrs. Collins splayed her feet and planted them firmly on the kitchen floor. She rose from the rocker with a grunt and grabbed her cap, twisting it onto her head, the strings of white clinging to the dark flaps. Pal's head covered, his black nose was poking out of the blanket as the old woman left, oblivious to the stricken look on Stella's face. The crumbs forgotten, she sank down on a kitchen stool. Despair overwhelmed her.

4

As Christmas drew closer, Becka became obsessed with the boy's welfare. Silent at dinner, she went to her room afterwards, saying a terse "Good night." Mary Kate took Becka's place in the parlor, painstakingly working on her pillowcase—an embroidered image of a farmhouse with chickens and a small girl feeding them in the foreground. Becka's absence wasn't discussed, but Phil would knock on Becka's door every evening and the door opened to let him in. At seven thirty each night, Arthur waited as Becka handed the sleeping boy to him. Drawing the quilt over Phil as the two-year old snored, Stella often remembered being alone—a sixteen-year old caring for her small sister and twelve-year old Bobbo. Becka's four-year old face— the blue eyes filled with loss… _grieving was a luxury_. _ Keep her safe—hadn't she always?_

Finally, Stella agreed to attend a special event, hosted by Desimone's, where Mr. Baker would display items, designed especially for the coming holiday. Of course, the boy would be there too, and despite her efforts to dismiss her fear, she dreaded seeing him. At ten on the Saturday morning before Christmas, Bonnie, their patient mare pulled the wagon along the muddied road into town. Her arms folded around a box containing a fresh baked cake, Becka sat on the padded seat next to Stella. Unlike other trips into town, Becka did not chatter in her customary guileless manner that Stella found annoying but endearing—so like their mother…

Neither woman spoke as the wagon's wheels rolled steadily toward the town, seen only as wisps of smoke from the other side of a hill where Redhill lay—its name the result of a brief but deadly property dispute between farmers a hundred years earlier. Becka fixed her gaze on the pines of the distant woods, while Stella focused on the old mare's deliberate gait. Besides their lonely wagon, the only sound was the wind, low and mournful, then wailing with intensity. The strong gusts caused both women to grip their seats. Now and then, she heard the moos of cows as the animals searched the ground for what was left of autumn.

With the first glimpse of Wilson's Blacksmith & Carriages—a cluster of sheds and stables on the edge of Redhill, the wind roared in an assault so fierce Bonnie neighed and shuddered as the sisters braced against each other for balance. The frigid air pummeled the barriers of woolen scarves, coats and mittens, seeming to warn--turn back. _You're making too much of this,_ she whispered. Wrapped in her gray coat and knitted scarf, Becka sat quietly. _Why do I fear him?_ Stella kept turning the question in her mind as the wagon slowed.

Halting at the barbershop, she heard laughter as several yards away the door to Desimone's opened. Becka gathered her skirts, slipped her arm under the boxed cake and left the wagon without a word, disappearing into Desimone's before Stella reached for her purse. Reluctant to follow, she saw a hint of sun teasing the edges of clouds that were dusting the muddied streets. Soon, a layer of new snow would hide the deep tracks.

Pinecones and cinnamon, coffee and tobacco—peppermint, the mix of pleasant fragrances was one of the few things she liked about the Christmas season. She followed two older women as they hurried in, lest two much heat escape from the potbellied stove warming the recently enlarged store. Surprising, she thought, the Desimones' allowing Baker to use their store. The Desimones discouraged competition.

Dozens of eager folk milled about, inspecting the newest merchandize, including a family of ceramic ducklings, following their mother to a ceramic puddle. There were beautiful red and gold tins of oolong tea, and from Europe, canisters of cocoa showing delicate pink and red roses on their glossy lids. _There now_…she could see the back of the boy's blond head—the hair curving over his frayed collar—the jagged strands still in need of a cut. He sat cross-legged in a corner, among sacks of white flour. The child was staring at a wooden top, cocking his head as he turned it in his hand.

"If you saw how he neglects him…" Becka had said.

Stella began to doubt herself. What she felt had no logic. She would combat her fear with reality. Hot apple cider, tea and holiday cookies were being served by the pastor's wife. As the woman passed by, she saw Becka whisper to her. Wearing a smile of Christian charity, Carol the Pastor's wife made her way around the guests, who clapped sporadically as Baker displayed a variety of finely crafted toys, ladies' accessories, knickknacks and keepsakes. Drawing as close as she dared, she found herself watching the wooden top in the boy's hand as his thin fingers caressed it, than turned it, then stroked it. He seemed to be listening to…_Was he cooing like a dove? _

The top began to spin—images of birds appeared, perched in trees, flying off, returning, and then flying off again. The boy's head went up. She panicked and looked away as she saw Carol moving toward him. She caught the joy on Becka's face as Becka poured cups of tea. Becka glanced at her, defiance in her eyes. She decided she would pretend she didn't see…better not to acknowledge it—so unlike the sister she knew. Turning away, she caught a glimpse of Carol pressing a ginger cookie into the boy's hand.

"Thankee, ma'am," he said.

Carol patted his head—the crosshatch in her face becoming ropes as the smile spanned even wider between the knots.

"You're welcome, little man. Remember, Jesus loves you."

Carol returned to the counter where Becka was refilling the sugar bowl. Stella saw them exchange glances, Becka's face flushed with excitement. Approving laughs broke out as Baker demonstrated a wooden monkey climbing a ladder. He had already sold several model ships—exquisite replicas of those on the Great Lakes. His ingratiating voice irritated. She began to think of excuses…maybe a cold coming on, or a headache. She would have to find some way of distracting Becka. _ Make her leave. Keep her safe. Keep her safe? _ She searched her troubled mind. Why did she think Becka was in danger?

A feeling—shards of ice surprised her, slicing through her breast, making their way to her hands and feet. Alarmed by the pain, she steadied herself. _Melt,_ she said. The pain left; familiar hopelessness gripped her, deeper than when it had announced her mother's coming death. She looked toward the corner where the boy, Bernie sat. Only for an instant—I'll merely glance and look away… The boy was studying the cookie, nibbling its edges. He looked up. His eyes—why hadn't she noticed? His eyes were an odd yellow—almost colorless—cold. He smiled, his face pale and soulless, as he turned to meet her gaze. I hate you, his eyes said.

She elbowed through the crowded store and taking Becka's arm, insisted they leave. Becka began to protest that she, Becka was needed.

"I need you more right now." Stella whispered as she handed Becka her coat.

A terrible headache, she later explained. While pressing a cold cloth to her head, she forbade Becka to go near the boy. Becka tearfully demanded a reason. Stella would give none. _Keep her safe. I'm afraid of him, _she thought. Christmas was coming. She forced the fear from her mind.

5

Christmas Eve morning, mixing bowls, pie pans and long metal baking sheets for cookies and rolls crowded the oak table. She planned to complete the baking and to give the kitchen a scrub before preparing the evening's meal. A ham, courtesy of the West family and two laying hens, well past their prime, were waiting for their turn in the oven. She and Arthur had presented the Wests with several jars of excellent peaches, a mince pie and four dozen chewy oatmeal cookies. At a little after six a.m., Becka finished mixing the cookie dough and wrapping herself in her old gray coat, she hummed "O Come All Ye Faithful". Her attitude had much improved and Stella was relieved to see her sister's sweet disposition come back to her.

"I'll be just a few minutes, Stella Bella—going to check on Mrs. Collins".

With no family left but Pal, Mrs. Collins became a Calkins at Christmas-time. She was puzzled when she saw Becka take a covered plate of cookies, and tuck them inside her coat. She opened her mouth to ask when a kitten ran into the kitchen, little Phil close behind. She called for Mary Kate to fetch her brother and the cat. Closing the kitchen door behind her, Becka was gone.

As her sister shut the door, her heart sank. _Why?_ It was six a.m. She had been in the kitchen for over two hours. Arthur's breakfast eaten, he relaxed with his favorite catalogue, wistfully viewing the latest selection of men's boots. The children played with the new kitten, a stray Becka discovered the day before, as it shivered near the outhouse. Her anxiety regarding her sister found an outlet in preparing for the day ahead. She rolled the dough for piecrusts, making a mental list of all there was to do. More than the usual number of chores—pies to bake, an elaborate meal to prepare--not to mention the chickens. At 8:30, Becka had not returned.

She began to panic. She hurried to the Collins home, a half mile away. The door of the small white house swung back and forth, the wind unable to close it-- blocked by the old woman's blood-soaked body. _Oh Becka,_ she thought, as a flood of unwelcome possibilities began to wash over her. Stepping over Mrs. Collins, she rushed into the parlor.

Family portraits torn from the walls—the broken oval frames smeared with the blood. Someone had tossed Pal's body onto the small settee--a lace doily wound around the little dog's neck. Figurines that Mrs. Collins' dead son Davy, a merchant marine, had brought her back from the Orient were shattered against a wall, papered with tranquil images of spring bouquets. She discovered Becka's coat, streaked with blood, discarded on the upright piano.

As she ran out the door--- her mind reeling with desperation--- focused on organizing the search for Becka---she saw something in Mrs. Collins' dead hand—a small wooden top, intricately carved, with strange symbols and birds.

6

Dec. 25, 1900

_ The Cabin_

Her husband Arthur huddled on the edge of a bench--his hands covering his face, while Sheriff Gibbs gave instructions to the two older deputies. The younger pair, barely out of their teens, waited nervously, the urge to flee on their faces. Naked, the man was sprawled at their feet--his face bloodied by a wound that had taken the top of his head. Near the dead man, in the middle of a crudely drawn star, lay Becka. Around the star's five points, a circle and symbols scrawled in blood on the splintered floor. Arms bound, feet tethered--her body, chalk white against the planks--except for its center. The red cavity oozed.

Stella sank to her knees. _Becka's heart? Why not some other girl's? Why not someone else's sister lying here—murdered, not able to string popcorn or rock a little one to sleep? _ She drew a breath and began to shriek. "Nah-nah-nah" she insisted, shaking her head. Tears dropped steadily onto her sister's hand. Waving them away as Bobbo and the sheriff tried to pull her from the dead girl, she began to rock herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her own body in an embrace. "Nah-nah-nah!" she moaned.

"Oh yes…," sighed a voice. She opened her eyes to see the boy. He sat cross-legged, his crimson hands resting on his lap. A glistening pool had formed from Becka's blood as it spewed, hitting the tousled hair of her murderer. Red streams followed a path from his brow to his chin, where they hesitated before falling on his small chest. His eyes snared her—holding her. This boy, whose wretched state drew pity from Becka's soft bosom…

Becka's coat gave the hounds her scent—led them to this place. She struggled to break free of the boy's gaze. His eyes, the pupils swelling, becoming…_Becka! There's Becka! _ She saw her sister's face. The boy was saying something…his thin arm raised like a warrior, he brought the knife within an inch of Becka's naked breast. Becka was pleading—her mouth moving in a silent prayer----the boy's eyelids flickered. She pulled away and—his eyes opened wide showing the dripping heart, held in his hand like a prized baseball.

Stella--crushed, as grief pressed its claim-- fell gently into madness, where Momma, Pa, little Bobbo and Baby Becka waited for her on a spring day. As she drifted, she thought…_there is magic in the world….and it is dreadful._


	3. Chapter 3:CRISPIN

**CRISPIN**

ATLANTIC OCEAN--LONDON TO NEW YORK

AUG, 1894—OCT, 1895

1

Crispin Baker blew smoke rings as he stood on the ship's deck. He savored his smoke, enjoying the mild breeze as it carried the ghostly wisps into the dark. An expensive cigar he thought, as he rolled it between his fingers. The deck leaned gently as the wind picked up. He prided himself on his good taste, an achievement, considering his upbringing. Dear Aunt Meg did all right, he allowed. It wasn't easy—he wasn't easy. He stood between stacks of deck chairs, secured lest they slide, toppling into the Atlantic Ocean. Fond memories… Aunt's sewing basket, the hidden pearls, so beautiful he cried when he discovered them, tucked into the lining. Naughty girl. A shame, really—her death…

A light glowed to guide him back inside. He looked up. The wisps had disappeared. Millions of stars--- specks of white paint spattered the black sky. He wondered if Aunt Meg was somewhere in those stars. He knew she'd be vexed with him, but after all, what else could he have done? The chairs began to rattle as the sea stirred the waves. He steadied himself. A bottle tumbled down the deck. He frowned at it, disapproving. Someone was careless.

Faint laughter drifted from the upper deck. He gritted his teeth, biting down on the precious cigar. Buggers, he sneered. Examining the wounded cigar, he wrapped it in paper and tucked it away. Plenty more to be had. The Elite of New York Society beckoned.

_Professor Theosopho, at your service—ready to contact your dear ones on the other side. _A woman's voice, not far…in second class, maybe…He wondered what the women would be like--better than Mrs. Rita Croft, no doubt. "Love letters", she said, "Find them and I'll believe you." He still winced at how she found him out. Incredible--someone sending that old cow anything but a bill for services rendered. "If it's really my lovely Biscuit, he'll show you where I hid my letters, dear." Her double chin wobbled when she said "dear".

He had charmed her. Crispin counted on his good looks. Handsome as a youth, with dark brown hair and the gray eyes of his Irish mother, he had retained the slender build of his East End father. He was the first to admit that he was no longer a lad, but he still caused many a heart to flutter, and legs to open. A man of fifty was a man in his prime. His silver hair gave him an air of distinction and nobility. He was careful to dress the part.

Who hadn't a few pints in his life? If only she hadn't threatened. The baggage would still be drinking her tea and mooning over the bloody cat. He'd fooled half of London. There were invitations. She insisted. "I paid you, now communicate with Mr. Biscuit, damn you!" To be undone by a dead cat…

The bottle rolled against his foot as the ship swayed. He picked it up. Still a bit of whiskey! Ha! He drained the remaining drops, spilling them on his tongue, and shook the bottle. All gone, he lamented, bitter at his fate. He held the bottle in the palm of his hand and stepped out from the shelter of the chairs. How far could he throw it? Would he hear the splash? Unlikely--the water was stirring up, glints of light on the waves.

Crispin made his way to the rail. Bottle in hand, he staggered as the deck pitched down, sending him careening to the rail's edge. Oh dear, careful, mustn't fall. Like Aunt and Rita. "Ta, Aunt." Down she went to the street below. Poor dear, never suspected. Why should she? He was only seventeen. Rita, on the other hand….far messier—all that muck, brains and such. _They saw him as he looked down—the old women in the street. Their feeble voices rose to a thin scream. _

They were old, those women—couldn't make out their wrinkled faces in a looking glass, much less his, three stories up. He held the bottle in his palm and raised his arm.

A voice interrupted him. "I seen you. Can you do it? Can you reach them?"

Crispin whirled around. The ship groaned as it rocked. He held the whiskey bottle by its neck, steadying himself, clutching the rail. A small figure was crouched between the stacks of chairs.

"Who's there? Show yourself."

The figure stood up and braced against the chairs, arms wrapped around a restraining rope. Crispin moved closer. One so small would be easy to manage. It was a boy of six or so. Hard to see, the child's face was in shadow. The boy stepped forward—his blond hair caught in the weak light.

"I want to reach him. I want to reach them all. There are rewards for you if you help me."

Rewards? Crispin snickered. A brat's game, was it? He'd see who the brat belonged to. If there was money, so much the better. He wondered how loud a splash a brat might make--

much louder than a bottle, he was sure. He took a closer look. The boy's shabby clothes left no doubt. An orphan—most probably, a stowaway. He inched toward the child. The thought made him feel powerful. Maybe now…

"Dear lad," he whispered, "whatever are you going on about?" His arms left his sides, ready to snatch.

The child stepped into the light. He could see him now. Curious, the eyes…their color looked almost yellow. Perhaps it was the light. One would think them hazel, then a sort of green with flecks of gold… His feet felt cold. Odd, it was creeping up, growing stronger. Why was the brat staring? _ Ice—his arms frozen, his body was a block of ice. The bottle was part of him. Knock him hard, and he would smash into a million bits—slivers and shard_s. His heart slowed, the blood hesitating.

"What were you thinking?" The childish voice hissed.

The boy cocked his head, peering at the frozen man. He was an insect in a jar--helpless. The orphan gave a smile. It was full of spite. "I want to go to sleep now." An order issued to a servant. Crispin blinked. Warmth ran down his leg--he had wet himself.

Baker's life was his no longer. "Bernie" belonged to no one. 'The Professor" found himself sleeping on the cabin floor while Bernie (his "little son" he told the others—raising his finger to his lips lest the ship's staff discover the stowaway) rested in the upper berth after eating his fill of the food Crispin brought him. Caught--as if he were a fly in a web, and Bernie, a nasty spider.

The day before the ship sailed into New York's Harbor, Bernie sat on a deck chair eating ice cream. "I want hokey-pokey", he'd demanded, seeing the frozen treat. The sun warmed them. Passengers lined the rails, shielding their eyes as they searched the horizon. Bernie licked the melting confection as it trickled.

"Precious! Precious!" A woman in her sixties pushed through the crowd. Crispin admired her elegant gray coat, made of the finest wool—its rows of ivory buttons attesting to her good taste and large fortune. Shifting from a high-pitched cry to a mournful choking moan, she sang out "Preeecc-iousss….Preeecc…ious!" Cupping her hand to her ear, she called, hoping to hear the yap of her lost Pomeranian. He sat on the edge of the deck chair, observing her while he avoided any unhappy drops of the boy's treat falling on his expensive striped trousers.

The woman drew a handkerchief from her knitted purse and began to dab her eyes. She hesitated, standing at the rail, looking through the crowd for signs of her lost Precious. He arranged a look of careful concern on his face as he studied her. Has she given up hope? Not yet, he decided. The woman, a widow named Mrs. Palmer, had condescended to personally search in third class for her missing dog. Stewards had dutifully knocked on doors the night before, asking if anyone had seen the missing Precious. A reward was offered…Pity he hadn't considered that; he might have simply hidden the animal, playing the hero by restoring the beloved Precious to his mistress, and collecting the reward.

Two mornings previous, while strolling on the first class deck, he had seen her preening, basking in the oohs and ahs that greeted her and her little companion on their early walks. Mrs. Palmer, with her abundant chins and airs, so like the hideous Rita, had clouded his thinking. The pleasure of pinching the little wretch from under her Ladyship's nose was irresistible. He smiled, recalling the beast's rapid little heart as he tossed it into the Atlantic. Say hello to Mr. Biscuit, will you luv? Mustn't dwell…more important issues to consider. Bernie…how best to kill Bernie? Throw the little bastard overboard, or wait until he slept and smother him with a pillow. He would leave the body hidden on the ship when he disembarked… Bernie's sticky fingers grasped the arm of Crispin's chair. Pulling himself closer to Crispin's face, he whispered in his ear, "You stupid Crispin!"

An image filled his head---her ladyship's purse opening—she hands him a hundred—no two hundred—five hundred pounds…her eyes swimming with gratitude as he hands her the shivering dog. _Glad to help, he says—and by the way luv, introduce me to your posh friends…Of course you brave man, she sobs as she hugs the pathetic Precious… He really should consider the reward—go and find the dog—think of the reward…you'll be a hero_…He was almost to his feet when he began to fight the urge to find Precious. He wanted to rush to the rail and jump into the ocean--down into the cold water—calling for the lost Pomeranian as he swam about. Panicked, he looked around—someone will stop me, he hoped. I'll be rescued, surely. He fought to stop his legs as slowly, he rose to his feet.

"I can make it so that no one helps you. I can make it so that no one even sees you drop!" Bernie smiled as he licked his fingers. Crispin fell into the safety of his folding chair as the heartbroken Mrs. Palmer made her way back to first class.

2

NEW YORK

AUG. 1894

Mr. O'Brien was singing as the baby continued to wail. It had been an hour, when eight-year-old Charlie ran in with the bottle. "Bless ya, boyo," said the relieved Mr. O'Brien. He sat at the small kitchen table, holding the six-month infant, jiggling him on his knee, to no avail. After taking a swig of the cheap whiskey, the burly man funneled a small amount into the baby's mouth. Soon, blessedly, there was quiet. Sitting near a large pile of laundry abandoned when the landlady left to do errands and engage in rounds of gossip, Crispin knew soon, he would go mad.

Bernie was at a window, staring down at the courtyard. The boy seemed indifferent to the baby's piercing cry. Shunned by the other children, Bernie showed no desire for their company. Other than an occasional demand, the boy rarely spoke, spending most of the two weeks they had been "guests", standing at the kitchen window. Crispin would hear him whispering at night—speaking to…better not to know. Sometimes there would be a giggle. Crispin always covered his ears.

The tiny closet and pile of rags that constituted the "guest room" in the O'Brien flat cost three dollars a week. Crispin was used to slums—dirty, crowded, and filled with the smell of unwashed bodies, refuse and the constant cries of babes. The New York Irish slum—its floors of crowded rooms, with the small courtyard and fetid air, was no worse than what he knew. What made it unbearable was the August heat. Sleep was impossible.

He must get back. Take his chances—go back to London. Hopeless. His best shirt clung to his body. He reeked of body odor and O'Brien's whiskey.

He'd used the same plan--not too grand to start. Work your way to the estates. Select the well-to-do. Those moving up--the ambitious. "Professor Theosopho--my card," he said. "An urgent message" for the "lady of the house". He'd done his homework, eaves-dropping in the shops, chatting with the nannies--bits of useful gossip. He always dealt with women. The servant took his card and shut the door. Rude of him. How was his mistress to know? Something was spinning away. His charm—his ability to persuade, where was it? There was Bernie. It would never be the same as long as there was Bernie. Hopeless.

Last night—he waited. The boy was sleeping—Crispin had studied him, making sure. He moved past the snoring family, opening the door, careful of the creak. Shoes in hand, he made his way down the cluttered stairs and into the street. Taking a deep breath, he began to run, stopping to put on his shoes several blocks from the tenement. He ran laughing, freedom in his lungs. Oh, the glory! I beat the little bastard—whispered with every stride.

He saw the pub. Perfect! Must celebrate--mark the occasion. Plans began to spring up. He'd go to Boston or Philadelphia—money—lots of it there. He'd relieve a few citizens of their purses. Dead or alive—he didn't care. Better dead maybe—someone had to pay—pay for what he'd been through—what was done to him by that hideous boy—that creature.

Must have new clothes—dress the part. He spent what was left—no need for rent—he wouldn't be returning to the O'Brien hell. The dark pub smelled of whiskey and cigars. Soothed by familiar surroundings, he remembered that last cigar on the ship. There will be more, he promised himself. His image in the bar's mirror, made him weep. Thank God, he escaped. Drinking the last of his rent, he considered the patrons. Was there any money there? A couple of ancient blokes in the corner… Those standing-- laborers-- too large, too strong to risk, especially in his weakened state. He saw that the older men had not ordered in an hour—no money.

Best to investigate another place-- area—with more prosperous drinkers-- maybe a woman. He'd left the pub whistling—ready to begin his new life, when he saw the knife. It lay in the gutter near a small wagon. Not very large—from a butcher shop, he guessed. He needed a weapon. He wondered how sharp it was. A sharp knife was always useful. He picked it up and scraped his thumb along the edge._ Sharp enough to kill quickly?_ A thought—he should test it. The urge to cut came unexpected and before he could help himself, the knife etched a shallow path on his throat. No, he thought, _not enough, he should slice his own throat—cut through the artery, and if possible—go right to the bone. Then he would know for sure._ His heart beat in his ears—the pulsing blood waiting to gush out in a stream—his life moving with it. His hand shook as he fought the urge to cut.

"Leave me and you'll finish it." The voice came from the shadow of the wagon. The wagon sat under a street lamp. Crispin focused on the shadow, not daring to think. He'd be dead if he thought too much. Part of the shadow moved. Bernie. The boy crawled from the shadow and stood, folding his arms. Crispin was glad he couldn't see those eyes as he held the knife, his thumb against the bleeding skin. "Please, lad…anything…just don't make me…" Crispin was weeping, the blood trickling from the wound. _So far…I'd gone so far…surely I'd lost him. _He'd left the pub, certain he was free. _How did the monster know?_

More careful now. Mustn't ever assume. He knew better than to leave him behind--now. The baby was quiet. Thank God for that. I must go back. _How can I? _

An insistent voice interrupted his thought. "Seamus, did the housing inspector call? Did ya remember ta tell him about the rot under the window?" The lady of the house was home.

Mrs. O'Brien's bark was worse than the baby's bawling. Waking from his slumber, Seamus slapped the table. To his horror (and Crispin's), the whiskey bottle wobbled and began to fall. Four–year-old Kathleen ran across the room and caught the bottle, saving its contents. "Tank you, me lovely Kathleen!" Seamus's relief at the rescue restored his good mood. "E'thall right Da", the little girl lisped as she skipped her rope out to play. The baby whimpered. His father dripped more whiskey into the tiny smacking lips. Between drips, the infant babbled da-da-da, flexing his fingers through the mat of hair on his father's arm.

"Don't make a drunk out of me child, ya villain!" Mrs. O'Brien's pregnant state made her particularly irritable. The sound of clomping feet and high-pitched yells intruded as several small boys tumbled through the open door. "Out! All o ya." They laughed as they evaded her blows, dodging and arching their backs. Crispin saw Charlie swipe the jar of pennies sitting on the counter. He suppressed the urge to inform her of the theft. He had planned to take the pennies. Perhaps he could acquire them more easily from the boys. "Savages", she screamed as they all ran out. She slammed the door. The baby stirred, but quickly settled down, joining his father in a drunken nap.

Muttering a litany of curses, Mrs. O'Brien continued the laundry. Crispin wondered if he could get her to wash his shirt and then thought better of it. She would ask about the rent—better not draw attention.

"I want the wood," a voice said. Crispin turned toward the window. Bernie was looking at him, his frail body posed in a determined stance.

Bent over a washtub, the landlady was scrubbing the stains from a shirt. She glared at her husband who was snoring--the baby nestled in his beefy arm. Crispin felt a panic. What ever "the wood" was, Crispin knew he'd better find it. He looked at the woman. Did she feel it-- that terrifying chill? The boy radiated threat. Slapping the scrubbing board, she continued a diatribe on her husband's faults. Odd, that she isn't afraid of the brat. Crispin had seen that Bernie inspired fear in most people—adults and children. Mrs. O'Brien seemed immune.

"The wood, dear boy? What kind of wood?" Crispin asked timidly. "Trees, stupid Crispin, I want trees." Bernie turned back toward the window. "Of course, lad, whatever you say--right away then." Crispin heaved a sigh. They were leaving to find trees. What trees, he wondered. Knowing the futility of asking "why", Crispin gathered the little that remained of his possessions.

A few minutes later, he was ready. Bernie sat on the pile of rags, waiting. "We must be quiet," Crispin whispered. He peered through the curtain of their room and watched for the right moment. "Now, stupid Crispin, we leave now!" Bernie shouted. The boy shot Crispin a look of lethal impatience. Her head whipping around, Mrs. O'Brien saw the suitcase in Crispin's hand. "Oh, God, Bernie," Crispin said, "we're in for it!"

Taking a deep breath, she released a bellow and rushed to block their way, tossing a pair of sudsy bloomers in their path. "Thief! Help! It's thieves!" At the table, Seamus's drunken growl urged, "Fer God's sakes, woman-- let the pair of 'em go. I want ta sleep!"

The baby began to wail. Mrs. O'Brien picked up the nearly empty washtub and threw it at them, splashing water, but missing her target. She searched for a more accurate weapon. The whiskey bottle hurtled across the room. It barely missed Crispin, but the remaining spirits cascaded down the door frame. "Bernie!" he shouted, "The woman's mad! Run!" Flinging the door open, Crispin hurried down the stairs. Bernie followed.

The whiskey gone, Crispin heard Seamus give a distraught cry. His wife continued, "The rent! Ya bastard! The rent!" Her spouse's roar silenced Mrs. O'Brien. The sounds of slaps and thumps trailed down the dark passage.

They fled through the courtyard-- the simmering stench of the nearby stables greeting them. Bernie stopped and pointed to a group of ragged children playing within the enclosure. "I want that." Crispin strained to see the object of Bernie's gaze. "Of, course, dear boy---what is it that you want?" "Spinning," Bernie ordered. Relieved, Crispin grabbed the wooden top that was the center of the game. No one followed them as they made their way to the street and began their journey out of New York City.

3

CONNECTICUT

Sept-Oct 1894

_There were eyes. Mrs. O'Brien was perched on the kitchen table. "The rent—where's the rent," she squawked. She was talking to Bernie. Crispin wondered if she was going to eat Bernie. He hoped so. Bernie was skipping rope. The eyes floated around her head, like a halo. He saw them turn into red flames. Smoke was coming through the floor--shapes forming. Was he dead? Was this hell? "You'll go down, if you're not careful," Aunt said. Maybe she was right. He heard laughing-- Bernie. Mrs. O'Brien became a black bird, and was flying…_

"More. They say for you to make some more." Crispin opened his eyes. Above him, the sky looked down between the wood planks of the bridge. How long had he napped? He sat up on his elbows and judged by the bridge's shadow. Two hours. His stomach ached. It had been more than a day since their last meal—the old man's coffee and corn bread. Small insects were swarming an inch above his face, landing on him to take an occasional bite. The shade of the bridge gave relief from the hellish heat, but there was no refuge from the tiny pests. Bernie was standing, waiting for him to answer. Crispin considered suicide.

"More, Bernie?" His body ached from their weeks of travel. "The "Professor" had become a vagrant traveling the roads and wooded paths of Connecticut's countryside, stealing what he could--too dispirited to do more than survive. Bernie trudged silently behind. The strain of the boy's control weighed heavily. "More what, might I ask?" Crispin was close to tears. "Spinning" said Bernie. He gestured to a sack lying at his feet. Crispin recognized it as the old man's.

They'd seen smoke the previous morning, before the heat made walking such a torment. The smell of coffee grew stronger as they traced its source. A half a mile from the road, they found it. Crouched over his breakfast, an old man in dirty overalls was humming as he stoked a small fire-- the coffee ready for a battered tin cup. The cup sat by a burlap sack nestled on the ground. Sitting next to the cup, was a pan filled with fresh corn bread. The old man was alone.

Anyone else about? Crispin scanned the area and waited for a moment. Reaching for the pan of cornbread, the old man's back turned. Crispin struck him with a brick, splitting his skull. He dodged the spray of blood, which splattered away from him and, more importantly, away from the cornbread.

With the body hidden under some branches and after sharing the cornbread with Bernie, Crispin investigated the sack. A few pieces of wood—nothing of value. He left it behind, the wood spilling out on the ground. When did Bernie pick it up? What did he mean—"more"? More what? What had the sack to do with "more"? Bernie stood waiting. Reluctantly, Crispin emptied it. Under all the wood were some excellent knives, suitable for carving, a leather strap for sharpening, cloths meant to smooth and polish. He saw that the pieces of wood were of varying types and sizes. Bernie pointed to the wooden top in his hand. "More."

Crispin's wariness blossomed into terror. His voice shaking, he said, "Of course, anything m'lad, but I've no experience making such things." "More", Bernie whispered gently as one would talk to a small child. Taking a knife, Crispin selected a piece of wood and--hands trembling began to work—carefully shaving it.

He worked through the rest of the day and into the night. Bernie sat on the ground and watched. By morning, it had taken the shape of a top. "Ah" said Bernie. With that, Crispin found that his hands were no longer his to control. He watched, amazed as they expertly worked the wood's crude surface, quickly smoothing the rough planes. Small grooves appeared—what looked to be symbols. By the afternoon, as they sat beneath the bridge, the top was finished. Bernie took it quickly. As the boy spun it, Crispin saw what looked like birds in flight, alighting in a tree and flying off again. "Good Crispin" the boy cooed. Then to his surprise, Crispin felt a marvelous surge of pleasure— no longer tired or hungry—he felt happy. In that moment, his stunted heart felt love for the monster who had enslaved him.

4

NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT

OCT, 1894

"Well, luv, what do you think? Shall we tell him tomorrow?" Crispin enjoyed the rest of the rabbit stew. Sucking the delicate bones of the dead rabbit, he watched the woman as she finished cleaning the bar top. It was late--past midnight on a Monday. The Dancing Stag was empty, save for the barmaid, her new suitor, and the suitor's small son, who was sleeping peacefully under a corner table—a knitted blanket keeping him warm. Several carvings of Crispin's, including an impressive Stag's head, hung above a shelf behind the bar. The sales had afforded him and Bernie a room in a nearby boarding house. He regretted the fact that they would soon be leaving. He enjoyed a real bed and an occasional bath.

Bernie said it must be tomorrow. Crispin glanced at the corner where he slept. Was he really sleeping? Doubtful. Willie said he made her uncomfortable. Crispin had reassured her. "He needs the love of a mother—it's been hard on the boy." She folded her apron, creasing the folds. Her brown eyes had the look of a dying fawn. He reached up and stroked her hair. Good to feel a woman again, he thought. He'd been too long without. Not a girl, though. She was older than the thirty-two she professed. More like forty-two—and a bit too large for his taste—but still…overripe for the plucking.

"Let's go in the back," he whispered, "just for a while…" She took a quick look in the corner. The boy seemed asleep. Crispin saw her shudder.

"Such a small boy, I don't know why I…"

"What, luv?" he asked—knowing exactly what.

She shrugged. "Okay Crispie—but just for a few minutes."

"That's my girl," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. He reached around and cupped her breast.

"A few minutes is all—then we must stop."

"Of course, dear girl—after the wedding, there will be time..."

Much later, when he thought about it, he was glad she came. It startled him—he was just finishing himself--when she let out a stream of moaning (like a cow wanting milking he laughed to himself). They had but a few minutes in the crowded closet. "He might wake." She was nervous. "Don't worry dear heart, he'll be fine." In a rare spirit of generosity, (he admitted it was rare) he saw it was fitting--that she had a small bit of pleasure, considering what happened and all.

He puzzled over what happened that next night for weeks, trying to make sense of it. Did they open a door? Is that what happened? "They'll know it was us," he worried. He had no objections to anything; however, he didn't like the thought of hanging. "Do what I tell you and you'll be rewarded." The child's eyes took on a threatening glare. Crispin nodded enthusiastically. Hanging was preferable to anything Bernie might inflict. "Of course, lad—whatever you say—I'm completely on board."

Tuesday night, her house smelled of onions and bread. Crispin had sat on the small settee, its rose velvet freshly brushed and looking crimson in the shadow of an ornate lamp. A few eventful moments in their brief courtship told him that there was nothing of value in the tidy white house. Still, he approved of her excellent housekeeping. Aunt Meg could have learned a thing or two. Later, he was surprised to see Bernie eat everything, including the tapioca pudding. Unusual. he knew the boy was selective, despite their periods of hunger. Candles—how many were there? He hid them in the small wagon near the house. Bernie had been collecting candles—taking them. Crispin distracted their owners with his wooden carvings. Won't they see you? Bernie assured him they would not. He had wondered what purpose they served. That night he saw what happened when the candles burned.

He struck her with a wooden club he had carved the day before. Crispin made a show of announcing their "engagement" to his "son". Willie sat at his right—her eyes downcast—unable to look at the boy. "Not too hard," Bernie warned, she must wake up before we finish. Bernie spilled a glass of milk. As she reached to retrieve it, Crispin struck an expert blow. She was unconscious for an hour. When she woke, the satisfaction in Bernie's yellow eyes made Crispin feel proud.

The star drawn in blood--whose blood was it? They were all naked. Pools of blood, like puddles after a cloudburst, glistened in the candlelight. Bernie's hands dripped, adding to the puddles. Smears and streaks covered most of his frail child's body. Did Bernie draw the star using his own blood? Bits of that night were a blank. He remembered the awful smell, wondering if he had soiled himself and fearing the consequences. Bernie seemed indifferent to it.

Bernie cut his palm—smearing the blood on the woman before she woke. He was afraid Bernie would want to cut him too, but Bernie turned his attention to the barmaid. Willie screamed. When her mouth opened, the boy grabbed her tongue and sliced it off. The screams were soon moans. Not as loud now, Crispin thought approvingly.

The moaning reminded him of when she came. Interesting—how similar the cries were—one of pleasure and the other… She was tied down (securely—Crispin was careful) and the candles were all around…and eyes—he saw eyes coming through a tunnel-- watching. Why did he think of a door? Click clack clack clack—it must be the sound of their black wings slapping the air or breaking through… Bernie knelt near the woman…his little body rocking back and forth. Willie's fawn eyes followed the sway. The child was whispering, while she kept trying to say (plead?), "Kill me." She had no tongue, but he was sure-- that's what she mean to say. He held her tethered hands to keep her steady as Bernie continued to cut her. Tears ran down the barmaid's cheek and fell into the thick red puddles.

As he pressed his palms firmly down on her wrists, Crispin allowed himself to wonder what came next—best to keep quiet—do as you're told. Bernie's hands, clots of the barmaid's blood clinging to his fingers, rose abruptly as the light from the candles floated free—the flames dancing and spinning. Fear clutched at Crispin's throat—what if those flames—what if they mean to…then a sudden sensation—indescribable—oh the pleasure—the "reward", he realized with delight and wonder. It poured into him as if he were a wine glass—filling him to the brim. Overwhelmed, he gazed at Willie. She looked back with supreme indifference.

Then, as if she found it all incredibly tiresome, her eyes turned away from him, her face relaxed, and tilting her head slowly to her shoulder, she died. The boy cooed as he stroked her hand, his strange face content. The candles dimmed. The floating eyes were gone. "We leave now," the boy commanded. They cleaned the blood from their bodies and took the ropes from the dead woman. Crispin carried her to her bed. After dressing, they set fire to Willie, her bed, and her small neat house.

"Won't they know it was us? He was afraid.

"Stupid Crispin, I told you not to worry. They'll think she killed herself because you left her. I suggested it already when the bar was full of people." Bernie was losing patience with him. Crispin decided to keep his doubts to himself. They were on the road a few hours before the pleasure began to fade. He was depressed—he hated the cold.


	4. Chapter 4:LINDA

**LINDA**

**1**

LONDON, ENGLAND

1884

"He's a lecherous old one, mind you. What we done—he'd do to you if he could." Matthew's handsome face was full of concern. His caring was a lie, but she enjoyed the pretense.

"You sound just like Mum," she sighed. She stroked the small wisps of blond whiskers on his face. He was nineteen, but could pass for younger-- not much taller than she, Linda, was at fourteen. "I'll be careful—as careful as can be." Linda gave him a lingering kiss.

"So what do you think they do?" He asked. He was getting excited.

"Sex orgies", she whispered, her eyes wide with feigned horror, "with them running about all naked…"

"What a sight," he said and he did a dance, miming a lot of flopping skin, "some of them old ones—bouncing about!"

She laughed, throwing herself down in the fresh hay. In a nearby stall, a horse whinnied. Matthew put his finger to his lips. "Careful—we don't want anyone to hear, do we?" He fell down beside her and slipping his hand under her starched white apron and inside her unbuttoned blouse, he traced her nipple. Linda removed his hand and buttoned her blouse. She stood up, straightened her apron and frowned as she looked for telltale straw. While she made a careful inspection, the boy reached up and pulled her skirt—not ready for her to leave--just yet.

She shook her head. "That's enough," she said, "got work to do--so do you."

"Tomorrow," he demanded, still tugging on her skirt, "you'll tell me—spill all of it-- promise!"

His curiosity was her hold on him. He rarely came to the house-- his place being in the stables. _Something else, Matthew Oldman, something else will soon hold you._ Looking down at his pleading face, she enjoyed the moment. Freeing her skirt from his grasp, her expression grew solemn.

"I'll let you know tomorrow." His face fell. Linda hesitated, savoring his disappointment. Mischief filled her brown eyes. "Or not!" she teased.

He gave her a pained look. The girl threw her head back and laughed—her auburn hair in disarray. The sound of her high-pitched giggle carried throughout the stable and a horse began to kick its stall. Matthew jumped up and looked to see if anyone heard. They were alone. "Tomorrow!" she assured him as she left. Crossing the grounds, she smiled to herself. Maybe, maybe not—she hadn't decided.

Slipping through a back door, she paused. There were voices. In the laundry, her mother Rebecca was complaining to Betty, "…and I don't know what to do—the girl won't listen. If only her dad hadn't died…" Another voice interrupted—the housekeeper, Mrs. Hamilton—scolding them both for wasting time… so much to be done. "Sorry Mrs. H.—almost finished." Her mother hated Mrs. Hamilton.

"Your daughter—where is she?" Mrs. Hamilton returned Rebecca's animosity.

Lord Towning preferred pretty women. With their red hair and generous figures, Linda and her mother were, as Sir Charles required—easy on the eye. Dismissing them would cause Mrs. Hamilton aggravation, as she would be required to find attractive (and qualified) replacements—a task, in her opinion, unworthy of her time.

"Not feeling well today." Rebecca answered in a flat voice.

"Which means what?" The housekeeper was having none of it.

"Linda will have them ready." Rebecca said—her tone reassuring.

"She'd better!" Mrs. Hamilton warned.

Linda looked in a small hand mirror and smoothed her hair. After adjusting her cap, she checked the clock—almost two. Good--she'd spent less than an hour in the stables. Opening a closet, she slid out the stack of embroidered robes. She hurried into the laundry room and seeing Mrs. Hamilton, gave her a bright smile. "All finished, Mrs. H.. Shall I put them in the library? Linda glanced at her mother. Rebecca gave her a suspicious look. I don't care, thought Linda, she's almost thirty-one—past it all. She has no idea of what it is to be young.

Mrs. Hamilton's clipped speech showed her low opinion of her young subordinate "What do you think, girl? Use your brain. Of course—the library."

Lord Towning's annual gathering of selected members of "The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn" (Cook called it--The Heretic Order of the Golden Dawn) always put Mrs. Hamilton in a sour mood—the task of tending to over twenty weekend guests, their varied whims and special requirements taxing her limited patience.

Linda carried the ceremonial robes up the narrow stairs and onto the ground floor. She had spent the early morning ironing the flowing gowns, taking care not to snag the intricate embroidery. Down the marbled hallway, she could see that the tall doors of the library were ajar. Inside, several men were moving a massive table, recently delivered, especially for the coming event. "From Morocco—found it last year." Linda heard Lord Towning boast. Linda wished he'd lost it after he found it. It was an eyesore and, with all the curves and carvings and crevices (Matthew laughed when she described it) a nightmare to dust and polish.

The library was an inviting place. Its many windows let in the afternoon light and the graceful Oriental drapes pulled back, allowing light to fill the room. When perched on a ladder, swiping her duster across the innumerable books that lined the walls, or carefully rubbing the endless pieces of exotic art and treasure gathered from Lord Towning's trips, Linda would often lay her duster down and descend the ladder. After checking both sides of the long hall, and listening for footsteps, she'd close the door. Selecting a book from a lower shelf, the maid crawled into one of the plush chairs. She could barely read, but felt it only proper to have an open book in her lap while nestled in the soft cushions, pretending she was a lady. Only for a minute or two, she'd tell herself. Sometimes, she imagined the family portraits hanging throughout the room, glared with disapproval at her liberties.

Piss off, she answered, glaring back at the generations of wealth and privilege. Still, she was careful, especially after she was nearly caught. She had fallen asleep, the book (it was in Latin and she couldn't read it, and for the life of her, couldn't imagine anyone wanting to) in her lap. Voices in the echoing hall woke her and she leaped out the chair in a panic, looking for a place to hide. She saw the tall cabinet opposite the fireplace. After replacing the book, she hid--just as the door opened. Servants brought fresh flowers, placed them on side tables and soon to her great relief, she was alone again, her pretense undiscovered.

Then it came to her—she would hide and see what went on in the library.

2

"May I see it?" The sound of voices startled her and Linda awoke feeling stiff---her legs folded to fit inside the shelf. Because Mrs. Hamilton's sharp eye was distracted by the needs of the distinguished guests attending the evening's events, Linda had managed to mask her disappearance by appearing busy—folding what seemed to be stacks of napkins—most of them done in advance, covered by an unfolded few.

"In time, dear lady, in time…" It was Sir Charles. The master of the house was a corpulent man in his early sixties with thinning white hair.

Linda was curious about just what there was to see. She sincerely hoped that it wasn't that part of Sir Charles he decided to show her one late afternoon in the hallway, before the appearance of Mrs. Hamilton prevented whatever his Lordship had in mind. Matthew went breathless with laughter when she described Mrs. Hamilton's face—"Her bulging eyes popped out even further and her mouth hung like it came loose from its hinges." After recovering from the sight of Sir Charles with "his old sausage hanging out like a treat for the hounds" Linda laughed too.

There was laughing now, as someone made light of "Crowley's obsession". A man claimed to be offended and suggested that the topic be changed—there were "ladies" to consider. While one servant collected emptied champagne glasses, another served full ones. Linda noticed a faint odor. She tried to place it. It smelled like cigars, but they were rarely smoked in mixed company. "Incense", she heard a woman say. Her curiosity piqued, Linda cracked the cabinet door—careful now, she thought.

How many guests? Matthew would ask. Peering out as much as she dared, she tried to count—at least eighteen. She couldn't see the entire room from the open cabinet door, unless she risked discovery—unthinkable. Many were frequent visitors, though there were unfamiliar faces. She heard several foreign accents. French, she decided, and Polish, or…not important. She was exhausted-- eighteen hours—ironing, dusting, folding, and cleaning. She wanted it to be over—never mind what went on, she didn't care. Except for three beautiful women -- the younger wives of wealthy men--they were all impossibly old.

Linda wanted to leave—crawl into bed with her mother, curl up and sleep. Hiding in this cramped cabinet, for what--to see foolish old rich people prance around naked—the men with their wrinkled willies and the women with their saggy breasts? She would make up a story—perhaps devil worship with human sacrifice. That would drive Matthew mad--string him along, pretend that it was too traumatic to tell all at once. He'd be at her mercy for weeks—then she'd let him know who was boss. Oh, yes, he would know that soon enough. There would be no escaping what he owed.

As they enjoyed refreshments and speculated on what Lord Towning had in mind for the evening's secret event, the guests were wearing the robes that she had spent hours ironing. Mrs. Hamilton had given her strict orders. "Lord Towning is very concerned that his instructions be followed. All of the embroidery, especially the images of trees and birds in flight must be free of any creases," said Mrs. H., looking quite the witch with her widow's peak. The housekeeper wore her light brown hair in a narrow roll at her nape, allowing no stray hair to escape. The hairline revealed a high forehead. Linda, who followed current fashion, wondered why the older woman didn't try to soften it with a fringe of curls.

The threads in the embroidery glinted as the robes passed through the light. Candles placed throughout the room caused a trick of the eye. The images seemed to move--the birds' wings flapping. Linda was surprised to see the pattern on the creamy Oriental drapes matched that of the robes. The drapes were drawn shut--whatever happened in the candlelight would remain secret.

Linda heard a woman order the servants to leave. She fought the urge to spring from her hiding place and go with them. Was there a story she could tell—something to say to keep from being dismissed—her mother with her? Mrs. Hamilton would be happy to oblige. No--too late to change her mind—too late now. The brass on the tall doors clanked as they opened and shut. The locks slid—then, silence.

"And now", Sir Charles announced, the pride heavy in his tremulous voice, "The Key of Solomon!" Sir Charles held up a large book, laced with thick gold threads. Linda could see what looked like rubies and emeralds embedded in its spine. He held it as if it were a newborn and he its proud mother. She wondered how much such a thing was worth. The thought of stealing it and running off crossed her mind. She dismissed it as impractical, knowing inevitably, she'd be caught.

An excited murmur arose as Sir Charles thundered, "Silence! We summon Him. We call His dreaded army from Planes of Power. We summon--- He who grants new life! We summon--- He who devours the weak!" Chanting began as he moved through the room. "Place your offerings. Pledge your faith. Pay tribute." he repeated in a droning voice. His face, usually ruddy from abundant food and drink looked pale—the candles' light creating planes on ample cheeks, hollows where there had been none before.

A curious "ping" caused Linda to open the door another inch and she saw each participant place a small stone in a silver dish that lay on the table. An older woman presented a large sack and pulled out a black rooster that was protesting and flapping its wings. Wielding a ceremonial knife, Sir Charles decapitated it and plopped the severed head into the silver dish.

A fire sprang up--its flames shooting out of the confining hearth and into the room. Some in the room laughed nervously and moved away. There were sighs as the flames died. Without warning, the blaze exploded. Those near the hearth sprang back. Many glanced at the lock on the heavy doors. Linda wondered how quickly they could open—how long to escape?

Noise—like a thousand hammers pounding wood, then--small flames, glowing tongues, freed themselves from their source in the fireplace and floated through the room. The flames hovered in the air for a moment causing a frightened woman to shrink back and move to the doors. She pulled on the bolt, trying to slide it. As if welded shut, the lock refused to respond. Linda saw her remove her rings—perhaps they were preventing her from getting an adequate grip. The woman whimpered, seeing it made no difference. A man reached over and taking the knobs firmly, pulled. He looked surprised--it wouldn't move. No matter what might happen, no one was leaving now.

The flames moved to a wall of books, illuminating their titles, as they paused—not long enough to burn--crawling from volume to volume. A few jumped to the portraits, moving up and down, as if licking the proud faces.

Suddenly, Sir Charles began to cry: **We call you**! **Ehieh,Iod,TetragrammatonElohim, El, Elohim Gibor, Eloah Va-Daath, El Adonai Tzabaoth, ElohimTzabaoth, Shaddai. Ningiszida"! **Again he cried, "**Ehieh, Iod**, **Tetragrammaton Elohim, El, ElohimGibor, Eloah Va-Daath, El Adonai Tzabaoth, ElohimTzabaoth, Shaddai. Ningiszida! **

The room, stifling from the intense fire became cold causing the breath of those present to be visible. CAW! A crow appeared from the shadows, dropping down to the table, it perched on the edge of the silver dish. It pecked at the stones, as if examining them, then cocked its head to one side and let out another CAW! The crow took flight and began circling the room.

The Moroccan table shook and the silver bowl, filled with pebbles, rattled loudly. A rumble came from the table—as if someone were chuckling—someone with a deep, rich voice--terribly amused. The pebbles floated out of the bowl and began to strike the foreheads of the distinguished guests. They bounced playfully—striking one forehead, springing to another. An odor swept into the room. It was rich with sour decay—causing guests to gag, many staggering as they reached with one hand to grasp one another to steady themselves while the other hand clasped over their face to ward of the stench.

The rumbling laughter grew louder. Discovery became the least of Linda's fears. She felt an awful dread, as if something terrible were about to occur. Of what she wished for, the most urgent was to run—to burst from her hiding place, cross the room, hurry out the tall doors and into the safety of her mother's arms. Making an effort to flee she discovered she was paralyzed—her muscles frozen. Unable, even to blink, she stared at the horror before her.

The cabinet door flew off its hinges--an invisible hand wrested and hurled it. As the door flew across the room, it struck a woman--her head slammed down and crushed—blood spilling on the polished floor.

Unblinking, burning, Linda's eyes watered, tears spilling down her cheeks. The invited guests—those who were still alive—screamed in pain and begged for mercy. A man tripped on the edge of his robe, knocking another man down, into the edge of a table. She heard the snap as the second man's neck broke. One of the young wives struggled to remove her robe, shrieking, "It's stuck—it's stuck—someone help me." As the tears fell onto Linda's frozen hands, she saw the woman's graceful fingers claw her robe as it clung and melted, as if someone had poured molten white-gold on her.

Before she was completely blinded, Linda saw flames bouncing throughout the room—and eyes … From the silver bowl, a mist appeared and took the shape of a yawning mouth. Sir Charles was lifted up—his fat white body exposed as the robe hiked up and covered his face. As he bellowed like an old bull led to the slaughter, the fog-mouth swallowed him whole. Then--darkness.

3

She was floating. Not far--she could still hear the faint cries of the guests. Darkness…then she felt something—a being within her--searching... for what? Oh, yes—the baby--yes, of course. Magic—she thought, as she considered her child--the small thing that made her scheme—to punish Matthew—make him pay, as she would pay, and now—it didn't matter.

She followed the sinewy being—its long fingers outstretched and groping as it found the tiny human curled within her. The yellow flames in its eyes detached and clung to the red claws as they trailed wisps like maypole ribbons. The creature began to dance. The baby's eyes followed the swirl of ribbons. The creature was whispering something in her child's unformed ear. The fetus' rocked its head and waved its stubby arms and legs. She struggled to get closer--what was it saying that stirred her child? She knew the baby wanted to detach itself and leave her. Linda wished it could leave—she would let it go, but her baby stayed--at least for a while.

4

ABERDARE, WALES

MAR--SEPT. 1886

As the train lurched and hissed, Rebecca watched for the tavern. She would see it soon—the sign _Ram's Head_, and though it was early in the day, the comings and goings of men through the pub's door. Those without work—their shoulders rounded and hands stuffed deep into pockets, crept in and emerged unchanged hours later. Clouds of steam rising in the cold air obscured everything but the dark movement of a scattering of figures—people waiting to greet the train from London. She saw the shake of a horse's head and a wagon.

Where was the _Ram's Head_? She'd seen it from a train window on the day she left. Pints, music, darts, an occasional fight—the _Ram's Head_ was where her brothers spent so many hours—those hours not in the mine. _ It wasn't a place for a young girl, they said. Go home now, or we'll tell_._ The mine took them when the cage fell, and she swore she'd never come back. _Now, there was nowhere else to go, but Aberdare.

Early in their journey, Linda's whispered pleas,_ "N-n-n-ooo…_" had resulted in the migration of fellow passengers to other cars. Mother and daughter rode alone, the rows of empty seats rattling as Rebecca traveled the path she vowed to leave behind. As the train pulled into Aberdare, Wales, and her mother peered through the window, Linda lay stretched across her mother's lap.

Clouds threatened a storm as Rebecca searched for the _Ram's Head_, and found her father instead. His cap pulled down, hiding his face, but she knew the faded coat—she had mended it countless times. Two older men she recognized—acquaintances of her father's—certainly not friends—her father tolerated little that would pass for friendship—were waiting and carried Linda and their luggage to his wagon. Rebecca trembled as she followed them. It had been fifteen years since she had left.

Her father, his tall frame bent from years of shoeing horses, stood quietly, his eyes distant when they met hers. He loaded their belongings next to his limp granddaughter. "Your hair—it's white," she said. His brows still showed red as they hung low over his brown eyes. Without a word, he climbed onto the wagon. His voice was high-pitched, and graveled as he said, "Let's get her home while there's no rain."

There was silence as he drove the wagon to the modest house where she was born. She looked for familiar faces on the way. A few appeared—a playmate she barely recognized, waved shyly—most avoided her glance, or stared in curiosity—hoping for a glimpse of Linda. The wagon swayed and bumped along the uneven road, but Linda remained unaware—caught deep in whatever dream held her. As the horse drew them near the small cottage, Rebecca's only thought was that it needed paint—the white was nearly gone.

Her father never looked in her direction, nor in Linda's. Her dead mother had been the only link between them. Rebecca and her blacksmith father were strangers, but she had no one else, nor did Linda. He carried Linda into the dingy bedroom of Rebecca's childhood. Laying her on the narrow bed—the blankets thick with dust and neglect, he said, "There's soup for the both of you. I expect you to earn your keep." With those words, he left.

Even in Aberdare, Wales, people had heard. Twenty people, including Lord Towning, died that night--all but Sir Charles had burned, their robes melted into their charred bodies. Sir Charles bled to death—his body discovered on the Moroccan table, the silver bowl wedged between his legs. Despite it all, when the resistant doors suddenly opened for the bewildered servants, other than the charred corpses, they revealed no evidence of fire or intruders.

Her blacksmith father sheltered his widowed daughter and her child; Rebecca earned their keep by taking in laundry. It wasn't long before Linda's pregnancy was obvious. Wincing at his scorn, she was relieved when he didn't turn them out. Months passed, uneventful but for the sleeping girl's changing body.

As she awaited the birth of her grandchild, she bathed and fed Linda, who was helpless as a newborn. At times, Rebecca thought she was coming back to her. Linda's eyes would search--her expression frantic --a whispered word repeated—No—no-no-no-no-no-no….

5

ABERDARE---SEPT. 6, 1885

"Do you think she can hear me?" Rebecca was hopeful. "I don't have any idea, perhaps…," the midwife answered as she leaned over and considered her patient's placid face. "Linda, dear, Linda…listen to me...the baby's coming." The midwife shook her head and tried again. "Do you hear me, girl? Your baby—it's coming soon."

The figure in the bed lay unmoving--her eyes closed. The hair that grew on what was left of Linda's scalp was still a glorious auburn. It hung in thin patches not covered by the scars. On Linda's face, there were few scars, but her complexion had a grayish cast. Rebecca comforted herself by thinking it was better than the charred black it had been.

Rebecca sat in a rocking chair, its steady creak ticking away the hours. Can Linda hear it? Perhaps when the baby came, free of the burden, Linda would return. Except for the midwife, Rebecca sat alone. Linda's grandfather chose to stay away.

"Oh dear, oh my dear…" The midwife frowned as she listened to Linda's heart. She tucked clean rags and towels under her patient, replacing those that were blood soaked. She sighed, "Your girl is dying." Staring at the rags, Rebecca was surprised that she felt nothing. Is this how it is—she wondered—is this how you get through it—the loss of a child?

As the baby slipped out and into the midwife's gnarled hands, Linda's eyes sprang open. The midwife wrapped the new baby boy in a warm blanket. Rebecca stroked her daughter's face. There was a gasp. Rebecca jumped back as Linda sat up and shouted, "NO!" "No what, Linda?" Rebecca sobbed. "What, my baby?" Rebecca's hands reached out. The numbness was gone—loss tumbled onto Rebecca as Linda fell back and turned her face. One last sigh escaped before Linda's eyes widened and rolled back.

Rebecca sang a lullaby as she held her daughter's dead hand. The midwife tapped her shoulder. "You have a grandson…here, hold him now." Taking the small bundle, Rebecca slid her index finger delicately between the soft folds of the blanket, uncovering the baby's face. Revulsion overwhelmed her as the infant's eyes—yellow and cold, stared back.

Three days later Rebecca found an old woman willing to take her grandson, named Bernard, to a London orphanage. She hoped he would die there, but she doubted he would. The child had a way of making his needs met. She wanted him far away while he was small and weak—while her mind still belonged to her.

Nine years passed. Linda rested in the ground next to the two uncles she never met and Rebecca now lived in the cottage alone—her stern father dead from a cancer that took his dignity along with his life. The post had arrived the day before and as she sat rocking, her body aching from scrubbing and ironing the laundry of single men and the well-to-do, she opened an envelope marked _St._ _Stephen_'s _Home for_ _Orphans_. _He's dead_ she thought—hoped—_please, I can't_…. Someone had sent a newspaper clipping detailing the murder of Mrs. Rita Croft and the disappearance of Crispin Baker—known as Professor Theosopho, a self-proclaimed psychic. Police were questioning guests at a fundraiser held for the benefit of an orphanage, and attended by Mrs. Croft and the Professor. The name circled, it was the same orphanage where her grandson had been taken. The note enclosed with the clipping said, "He's missing. Say a prayer that he stays lost." That night, Rebecca prayed that her grandson stayed lost forever.


End file.
